Tiller escorted the boys to the airport terminal building. There they were told that a shuttle flight to Miami would be departing within the hour. After a quick bite to eat, Frank and Joe bid their new friend good-by and took off on the first leg of their journey back home.
They stayed overnight in Miami and arrived in Bayport the following afternoon. Aunt Gertrude let out a cry of surprise when they entered the house.
“Mercy! It’s been days and days since we’ve had any word from you!” she exclaimed. “Where were you? Chasing after some awful criminals, I suppose.”
The commotion brought Mr. and Mrs. Hardy to the living room. The boys’ mother gave them affectionate hugs and Mr. Hardy greeted them warmly.
“You’ve had me worried,” he said. “I was going to notify the authorities and request a search.”
An early dinner was prepared while the boys showered and changed their clothes. During the meal they described their adventures aboard the Yellow Parrot.
“You placed yourselves in a very dangerous position,” Mr. Hardy remarked with concern. “I’m thankful you decided to escape.”
“And, Fenton,” Aunt Gertrude interjected, “you should also tell them not to go running off for days at a stretch without letting us know where they are. Even a postcard would be of some consolation.”
“Sorry,” Joe quipped, winking at his brother. “There wasn’t postal service where we were.”
“The situation was sort of grim,” Frank admitted to his father. “And, the worst of it all is that we didn’t come up with any real evidence to link the Parrots with the robberies.”
“But I wouldn’t say our trip was a complete loss,” Joe said. “Remember, we do have a possible contact in Ellis. He might still change his mind and tell us what he knows.”
The boys talked to their father about the tentative arrangement they had made with the radioman.
“We’ll have to set up a listening watch,” commented Mr. Hardy. “Count on me to do my share. I’ll stand by the radio tonight. You two get some rest.”
“I’ll take my turn tomorrow night,” Joe volunteered.
“And we can get Chet to pitch in,” suggested Frank.
The brothers retired early and slept until late the following morning. After breakfast they drove to the Morton farm to see Chet.
They were startled to see a geyser of water spouting thirty or forty feet into the air near Chet’s home. A police car and an emergency truck were parked nearby.
“What’s going on?” Joe exclaimed as they leaped from their convertible. They were met by Iola Morton, a slim, pretty, dark-haired girl. She was Chet’s sister and a favorite date of Joe’s.
“I’m so happy to see you two!” she cried out. “Isn’t this terrible?”
“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.
“Chet became interested in archaeology,” explained Iola. “This morning he said that he was on the brink of a great discovery and began digging with a pick. I’m afraid he struck a water main!”
“Oh, no!” Joe shouted.
The boys ran to the scene. There they saw Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, a close friend of the Hardys. He was standing transfixed at the sight of the column of water as it gushed upwards.
“Hello, Frank and Joe. Well, your buddy really did it this time. Lucky for him that his parents are visiting friends in Clayton today.”
“Where is Chet?” Joe asked.
“On the other side of the geyser,” Collig replied.
Frank and Joe edged their way around and looked down into the deep hole that Chet had dug. He was kneeling near the water main at the point where it had punctured, and was trying to step the flow with his hands.
“Chet! Get out of therel” Joe yelled. “You can’t stop it that way!”
Their friend looked up with a startled expression. Then he scrambled out of the hole, dripping wet.
“Hi, fellows,” he said, embarrassed. “When did you get back?”
“Never mind that,” Frank answered. “What’s the archaeological discovery you were digging for?”
Chet glanced about sheepishly. “I—I read that there are lots of old Indian artifacts in our area. I was on the brink of finding something that would’ve astounded the scientific world.”
“Cheer up. You might still have accomplished something,” Joe said jokingly “If that leak isn’t fixed soon, you’ll have created one of the greatest tourist attractions in Bayport.”
“Right,” Frank added. “Morton’s Perpetual Geyser!”
“Aw, cut it out,” Chet said.
At that instant truck from the water department rolled to a stop. The driver leaped from his vehicle.
“We’re shutting the water off at the main junction!” he shouted to Chief Collig.
Then he walked toward the boys. “Which one of you is Chet Morton?”
“Well—er—I guess that’s me,” Chet stammered nervously
“I understand you’re responsible for this. What were you doing? Digging for gold? Or trying to sabotage the water company?”
“It was an accident,” Frank interrupted.
“Just wait till his father gets the bill for repairs,” the man went on. “This kid will look like an accident!”
“There goes your allowance for the next two years,” Joe needled.
Dejected, Chet strolled slowly to the house and sat down on the porch steps. The Hardys felt sorry for him and followed.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Frank said sympathetically. “Things could be worse.”
“That’s what you think,” Chet countered.
“Snap out of it,” Joe urged. “We’re going to need your help.”
Chet appeared to perk up a bit. “What kind of help?”
The young detectives told him about their arrangement with Ellis aboard the Yellow Parrot.
“You can count on me!” their chum declared. Then he hesitated. “That is, you’d better wait until my parents come home tonight. I don’t know how my father will take the water-main business. He might not give me permission.”
“Well, I’m sure he will,” Joe said. “This is an important assignment.”
The Hardys returned home. After dinner they had just sat down to read the evening newspaper when the telephone rang. Frank answered.
“I’m off the hook!” Chet said jubilantly. The water company found several defects in the pipe I punctured. They said they would have had to make repairs soon, anyway.”
“That is good news!”
“I’ve a good mind to charge them for services rendered,” Chet went on. “After all, I did part of the work for them by digging the hole.”
“If I were you,” Frank advised, “I’d leave well enough alone.”
“Okay. How soon do I begin my assignment?” Chet inquired eagerly.
“We’ll let you know.”
Frank hung up and rejoined his brother. Later Mr. Hardy came bounding down the stairs from the study.
“I just received a phone call!” he exclaimed. “Another museum has been robbed of its DeGraw collection!”
CHAPTER XV
Impostors
“WHERE?” Frank asked excitedly.
“The Shillman Museum in Connecticut,” his father answered. “Mr. Sedley, the curator, said the guards were knocked out by some kind of gas.”
“Again! Just like in Philadelphia,” Frank put in.
“Right. I’ll have to leave at once. I’d like at least one of you to come with me.”
Joe turned to Frank. “You go,” he said. “I’ll stay here. It’s my night to stand radio watch.”
Jack Wayne was notified to have the plane ready at the airport. Soon the pilot and his two passengers were airborne.
It took less than an hour to reach their destination. When they landed, Frank and his father took a taxi directly to the museum.
“The alarm system failed to work, yet it showed no signs of having been tampered with,” Mr. Hardy explained on the way.
When they arrived at the museum, there were no patrol cars or policemen in the area.
“This is odd,” remarked Mr. Hardy. “If a major robbery took place here less than two hours ago, where are the police?”
“Strange,” Frank agreed. “But there must be an explanation. At least the curator must be here. He’s probably inside waiting for us.”
Father and son pounded on one of the large metal doors at the front entrance of the museum. Minutes went by before a door was eased open and an elderly guard peered out.
“What do you want? The museum closes at five o’clock,” he said testily. “Come back tomorrow!”
“I received an urgent telephone call from the curator,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’re here to see him.”
“The curator? Mr. Sedley?” the guard replied, eyeing the Hardys suspiciously. “He went home shortly after we closed for the day. Who are you?”
The detective produced his credentials. Suddenly the guard straightened his cap and gave an informal salute. “Mr. Hardy!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard of you. I’m Jeremy Turner, chief of the night guards. What can I do for you?”
Bewildered, Frank stared at the man. “Wasn’t there a robbery here a couple of hours ago, Mr. Turner?”
“A robbery?” the guard queried with a look of astonishment. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“I assure you it is not,” Mr. Hardy answered impatiently. “I’ll have to call Mr. Sedley at once! Take me to a telephone!”
Turner quickly led the detectives to one of the museum’s offices. There Mr. Hardy pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it to a list of telephone numbers, and began to dial. Seconds later he had the curator on the line.
“You say I called about a robbery at our museum?” Mr. Sedley said, after hearing the story. “Preposterous! I did no such thing!”
“That’s all I need to know,” the detective replied. “Forgive me for being abrupt, but I must leave right away.”
He put the phone down, then picked it up again and dialed another number.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“I’m calling home,” his father told him. “I want to talk to your brother.”
Joe answered the telephone. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “What about the robbery? Did you—?”
“There wasn’t any!” Mr. Hardy quickly told Joe what had happened. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he went on. “Call the other museums that still have their DeGraw collections and warn them. Frank and I are flying back to Bayport right away.”
“Okay, Dad. Will do.”
Frank and his father hurried back to the airport. When they landed at Bayport, Joe came running toward them as Jack taxied the plane to the parking ramp.
“Dad!” he cried. “We’re too late! The State Museum in Delaware was robbed of their collection around ten-thirty!”
Frank cried out in dismay.
“I was afraid of this,” Mr. Hardy said angrily. “As soon as I learned the call from Mr. Sedley was a phony, I suspected it was a trick to draw us away.”
He turned to the pilot. “We’ve got to fly to Delaware right away. While you refuel the ship, I’ll check with the curator and the police down there. One wild-goose chase is enough.”
“Sure, Mr. Hardy.”
The detective rushed off to a telephone. Minutes later he returned. “This time it’s the real thing!”
“May I go along?” asked Joe. “Chet’s at our house standing by the radio.”
“Climb in,” his father replied.
The sleek Hardy plane streaked down the Bayport runway on take-off for the second time that night. After an hour plus a few minutes they landed at their destination and headed for the State Museum.
There they found the building swarming with uniformed police and plainclothesmen. As the trio walked inside, a tall, neatly dressed man blocked their way.
“Sorry,” he announced. “Only the police are allowed in here.”
Mr. Hardy presented his credentials and introduced his sons. A broad smile appeared on the man’s face. “This is a pleasure,” he said. “Never thought I’d have an opportunity to meet you. I’m Seth Spencer, chief of detectives.”
There was an exchange of handshakes, then Frank spoke up. “Have you uncovered any leads?”
“Not yet. The thieves seem to have made a clean getaway.”
“What about the guards?” Mr. Hardy queried.
“All were knocked out. Since gas was used in the other robberies, they wore masks. But every single mask was punctured!”
“Was the alarm tampered with?”
Spencer rubbed his chin dubiously, “No,” he replied finally. “And that’s something I can’t figure out.”
“Were there any eyewitnesses?” Joe asked.
“None who saw the robbery being committed,” the officer replied.
“Who notified the police?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
“A passer-by became suspicious when he spotted a trailer-truck race out of the museum drive-way with its lights off,” Spencer explained, “so he called headquarters. Unfortunately he was unable to give us the license-plate number or a detailed description of the vehicle.”
“One thing is certain,” Joe remarked. “It was carrying the stolen DeGraw collection.”
“Our men and the State Police are checking all trailer-trucks leaving the area,” the detective chief said.
After the museum and police officials had completed their investigation, Spencer and the Har. dys questioned the guards.
“That’s all any of us remember,” one of the guards declared. “There was what seemed to be a cloud of gas, and then—”
“By the way, how is Mr. Fosten?” another asked. “Is he all right?”
Spencer looked at the man quizzically. “Mr. Fosten, the curator?”
“Yes, of course.”
“My men have been trying to reach him since we learned about the robbery. He’s not home and none of his friends know where he is at the moment.”
The guard seemed surprised. “He was in his office last time I saw him,” he said. “That was right before the robbery. He came back here about an hour after we closed for the day. Said he was going to spend the evening catching up on some paperwork.”
“Good night!” Spencer shouted. He summoned his men. “I want you to go through this place again with a fine-toothed comb. Mr. Fosten might be lying unconscious in the building somewhere!”
A thorough search, however, revealed nothing. The detective chief scratched his head in bewilderment.
“Maybe the thieves took the curator along with them,” Frank suggested.
“If so,” Spencer said, “they’ll have a kidnapping charge added to their crime.”
Nearly an hour had passed when the telephone rang in the curator’s office. A policeman scooped it up, then shouted to Spencer, “You’d better take this call, Chief!”
“I’m Avery Fosten,” a voice crackled from the receiver. “Just heard a TV newscast saying the museum was robbed. What’s going on?”
“Where are you?” Spencer demanded. “We’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”
“My wife and I are spending a couple of days at a friend’s summer home in Maryland,” the curator replied.
“How long have you been there?”
“Since about seven o’clock. The drive took less than two hours.”
“But one of the guards here told us he’d seen you working in your office up until the time of the robbery,” Spencer said.
“That’s absurd!” the curator insisted. “My wife and I left immediately after the museum closed.”
“You’d better come back right away. There’s something fishy going on here.”
After hanging up, Spencer told the Hardys about Fosten’s call.
“If he’s telling the truth,” Frank put in, “there’s only one explanation. The man the guard reported seeing in the curator’s office was an impostor!”
“You’re right,” his father agreed. “An
d a clever plan, too. Disguised as the curator, the impostor had no trouble entering the building after hours. Then he was free to let his cohorts inside without attracting attention.”
At that moment a patrolman rushed up to Spencer. “Sir, a trailer-truck was found abandoned on a side road twelve miles north of here,” he said. “The crime lab has been checking for fingerprints and other clues. So far they’ve uncovered nothing.”
Frank turned to the detective chief. “Would you issue an alert requesting a check of any flatbed trucks carrying logs?” he asked.
Spencer was a bit puzzled. “Sure—I can do that. But why a truck carrying logs?”
“I can’t explain now,” Frank replied. “It’s only a hunch of mine and may not amount to anything.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer walked to a telephone, called headquarters, and ordered a general alert.
Exhausted, the Hardys went to the curator’s office and settled down into comfortable chairs. Soon they were asleep.
It was nearly dawn when a policeman awakened them. “Chief Spencer is back at headquarters,” he said. “He just called. The State Police in New Hampshire stopped a flatbed truck hauling logs outside the town of Newland. It was headed north. They checked and found that the license plates were phonies.”
“Where’s the truck now?” Frank asked quickly.
“At the police garage in Newland. They’re also holding the driver and another man who was with him.”
The Hardys were driven to the airport in a patrol car. They found Jack Wayne sleeping soundly on a sofa in the operations room.
“Jack!” Frank said as he gently shook the pilot awake. “We’ve got to fly to Newland, New Hampshire, right away. Is there a field nearby?”
“New-Newland, New Hampshire,” Jack murmured as he rubbed his eyes wearily. “I’ll check my chart.”
He unfolded a map and examined it. There was a small airport located two miles north of the town.
“I’ll call the police in Newland and ask if they can have one of their men pick us up at the field,” Mr. Hardy said. “How long will it take to get there?”
Jack measured the distance and made a quick mental calculation. “Approximately two hours.”
The Twisted Claw Page 8